


Above These City Lights

by Leoithne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Inspired by Music, Inspired by Storms, Light Angst, Lots of love to the city of London, M/M, Rain, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2263236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leoithne/pseuds/Leoithne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months had passed since Sherlock fell. Six months of grieving for John Watson, six months of pain.</p>
<p><em>I’ll be above these city lights</em><br/><em>No one needs to know<br/></em> <em>But you.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Above These City Lights

**Author's Note:**

> This is a oneshot that came to my mind thanks to the wonderful stormy weather there was in my town a while ago.  
> I am somewhat proud of it for different reasons and I am happy to have written it down, so I hope that you're going to enjoy it too!
> 
> My biggest thank goes to the Icelandic band who composed the fantastic song that inspired this fanfic: their name is Agent Fresco and their music is unbelievably marvellous! Give them a listen if you wish!
> 
> Note for the readers: the underline parts of the song are those actually heard by John, the other parts are unheard.

_Pull my heart out_  
 _My memories of him I fail_  
 _To feel_  
 _To hear  
_ _To scent his smell._

John Watson woke up in the middle of the night, the same old nightmare which had been haunting him for the last six months.

Sherlock on Bart’s roof. Sherlock talking to him on his mobile. Sherlock saying “Goodbye, John” before spreading his arms and falling down. Him watching, pleading, hoping it was just a bad dream. A very bad dream. Then Sherlock hit the ground and everything around John stopped moving.  All he could hear was the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his chest, the sound of the pain striking right there, the sound of his heart torn in two.

Six months had passed since his best friend’s death. Six months of grieving and of learning how to survive the emptiness in his life.

He rolled in bed, tears in the corner of his eyes, feeling the same pain he had felt month before. The pain, that pain would never ever leave him, never cease to exist inside him.

Every day was the same day as the day before. Every morning he would eventually get up and get ready for work. Every morning he would switch on the TV to hear if his wish had come true: “One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be…dead.”He had waited, waited so long for a sign. He had waited for him to come back. Everyone said he should accept the truth. He just couldn’t.

Even that morning he prepared breakfast for himself, the memory of the previous night still in his head and the noise of the TV behind him. News about the weather, news about an escalation of crime in the city, news about marriages. No news about Sherlock, obviously. All of a sudden the journalist’s voice ceased.

 

_I’ll be above these city lights_   
_No one needs to know  
_ _But you._

What was that? He went immediately to the TV to see what had happened, but the journalist was still there announcing an increase of food prices due to the continuous storms which were flogging the country. John had imagined it. He was tired after all. He had spent an almost sleepless night and he had already passed many other nights like that before.

It was time for him to go to the clinic. He had a full day to face. Twelve hours of torture. It had been him who had asked the clinic to charge him with more hours. He had thought the work would’ve helped him. He had been a fool. Nothing could help him at all. He switched off the TV.

 

_He is gone now_  
 _Without him world is but despair  
_ _“Can someone please just take me there?”_

 

Every day was the same day as the day before. He went to the underground station near 221B and waited for the train to arrive. His head still lost in his daily nightmare. He didn’t want to get directly to work and thus got off the train two stations before his one. The weather was good, but some clouds were starting to gather in the city’s blue sky. His memories of the past with Sherlock drifting in his mind like the clouds. His life was unbearable without his flatmate, without his best friend, without the man he…no, he dared not to pronounce those words. They just hurt too much.  He walked slowly over the bridge on the Thames.

_The calm_  
 _Cool face of the river  
_ _Asked me for a kiss._

Twice he had been over that same bridge at night, drunk to the point he couldn’t even recognize where he was, who he was. All that alcohol only to forget his miserable life, all that alcohol to try to forget the pain. All that alcohol making him feel the wound even stronger. He had stopped, admiring the slow, but fierce movement of its waters. It would have been easy. A jump in their starlit darkness and everything would have ceased. It would have been so easy. He still didn’t know why he hadn’t jumped, why he had preferred the torture of living without Sherlock to the oblivion of death. Yet he had decided to leave and thus to live.

As he passed over it now, the memories of his happy days with his flatmate coming to his mind, intertwining with his nightmares, with the vivid image of the black stele in that graveyard, far away from all the others. His golden name engraved on it: Sherlock Holmes. That was the worst part of his nightmares, because it didn’t cease to exist once he woke up. The fall from Bart’s roof, that was the past, the dream. But the tomb was the never-ending present, the reality.

He arrived at the clinic a bit later than he should have. He knew the staff didn’t mind. Even his bosses left him alone with his grief. No one really knew what he was going through for his inner state defied any description. He didn’t even have the right words to express what he was feeling. Pain, fear, grief, agony, torment, nostalgia, nothingness. A mass of suitable words.  Not a single one even near the truth.

Every day was the same day as the day before. Nothing unusual happened. Nothing at all. With Sherlock had been adrenaline every day. Now it was patient, patient, patient, lunch break, patient, patient, patient, short afternoon break, other patients. The first days without Sherlock he had checked his mobile frantically, hoping for a text message he had never received.

 

_I’ll be above these city lights_   
_No one needs to know  
_ _But you._

Hadn’t the radio in the hall just transmitted the same thing he had heard on the TV that morning? But no, it was a new cover of a Beatles’ song. Yet, he was quite sure to have heard something different. Was he going mad? Was the loss of his best friend bringing him to the verge of insanity?

Another patient came in and went out of his office. Another day passed.

Every day was the same day as the day before. Eight o’ clock p.m. had arrived, his shift finished. He was exhausted, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep. His nightmare, that night, would hunt him again. He exited the clinic. The weather had changed during the day and now the sky was all covered in black clouds, some distant lightning and thunders foreseeing an incoming storm. The air was chilly and John struggled to keep himself warm until the underground station.

_Mind the gap between the train and the platform, change here…_

Said the familiar metallic voice through the speakers. Yet the voice ceased.

  

_I’ll be above these city lights_   
_No one needs to know  
_ _But you._

_I’ll be above these city lights_   
_No one needs to know  
_ _But you._

 

No. This time he heard it clearly. It was the same thing he had heard that morning, the same he had heard at the clinic. Yet it looked like he was the only one who had noticed it. People on the platform didn’t care and went on with their lives. But his head was spinning. What did those words mean? They had no sense at all. Above these city lights. That rang a bell in his head. He had to fight hard to remember where he had heard them. When he finally remembered who had said something similar, his heart had a fit.

He remembered Sherlock on a roof. Not Bart’s roof, another one. They had been working on a case which had needed them to take part in a reception on the roof of a skyscraper’s in London’s square mile. At one point, Sherlock had stated they were above all the city lights.

His heart was now pounding fast in his chest. Was it Sherlock calling him? Was Sherlock alive? No, that wasn’t possible, said his head. Yet his heart wanted to believe. Or was his mind playing with him again? The first days without Sherlock had been hard for that reason. He had believed to see him everywhere, to hear his voice in every other man’s voice. Still now, six months later, sometimes he had the sensation of hearing the detective calling him. And what if it was some sort of criminal that wanted to kill him because he had been Sherlock’s best friend?

His body took the decision for him. He changed train three times and, before even realising it, he was staring at that exact skyscraper. It had just started to rain and he was without umbrella. There was strong wind, thunder and lighting, leaves whirling in the brisk air. He became wet to the bones in no time. His hair was wet, his clothes were wet, his heart, instead, carried a little sparkling flame of hope. He tried to indulge in that to not feel the harsh wind and the cold rain whipping his face, making him shiver violently. The skyscraper was empty for it was being subjected to some renovation. The doors should’ve been locked and there should’ve been alarms and guards. Yet as he pushed the front door, it opened. No signs of guards or alarms. The hall was dark, lit only by the street lights outside. He went to the lifts, doubting they were working. But they were. He went up to the rooftop.

The rain hit him even harder than before for the wind was stronger up there. He struggled to look around, trying to keep his eyes open whereas rivers of water were flowing on them. Everything around turned black, turned white.

In the distance he saw the dark shape of a man backlit, defined by the flash of lightning behind him. The pale skin of his face becoming white at the touch of it. His black hair still curled under the storm. He immediately recognised him. His silhouette so familiar and yet so strange.

_“Can’t go on”_  
 _A crowd of ghosts surrounding sings  
_ _A pair of silver banshee wings._

He couldn’t move any further, his feet glued to the floor, his whole body shaking. And not because of the rain. That was a ghost. It couldn’t be. He managed to take three steps further. As a brighter lightning burnt the sky, he met the other man’s aquamarine eyes.

“Hello, John.”, the man spoke “I knew you would have got my message.”

That voice. He would’ve recognised it among a million other voices. That voice he had so longed to hear again reached his ears mixed with the sound of the beating rain on the floor.

“Sherlock.”, John answered, shocked and lost “You were dead.”

He couldn’t quite believe his words as he pronounced them. _Were dead_.

“Not exactly”, he said firmly.

“How is that even possible?”

“I’m not allowed to tell you.”

Sherlock remarked, eyes fixed on the doctor. The rain pouring even harder, but John wasn’t feeling it anymore. Instead he felt the anger roaring inside him, burning him, despite the icy drops on his skin.

“You!”, he shouted angrily “You’ve let me mourn your death for six months, Sherlock! Six goddamn months! I thought I had lost everything since I lost you! I thought I couldn’t go on without you! I have even pleaded you in front of your grave! I asked you to not be dead!”

John almost lost his lungs how loud had he screamed.

“I was there, John.”, Sherlock answered quietly “I heard you.”

He couldn’t stand that. No, John couldn’t stand that at all. He thought he was somehow important in Sherlock’s eyes. Instead he had faked his death and let him suffer. His exasperation roaring even louder.

“And you didn’t come near me! You left me there, suffering, heart-broken! How could you?”, words dying on his lips as soon as Sherlock spoke.

“I could, John.”

“Why?”, he roared once more.

“To save your life. You’d be dead right now if I didn’t jump off that roof. And you’d be in danger again if people knew I’m still alive.”

John’s heart froze. Words escaping his lips without him noticing.

“How?”

Sherlock didn’t answer the question. Instead a painful groan left his mouth. John was a doctor. He understood immediately that Sherlock had a wound somewhere and that it was hurting too much. The detective’s pain threshold was higher than that of any other man. So it was a deep wound. He was probably even struggling to stay upright.

“Sherlock!!!”, he screamed rushing to him, oblivious of everything but his friend.

Sherlock coughed and some blood came out of his mouth.

“What’s that Sherlock?”, John asked anxiously “Did someone hurt you? What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m fine”, the taller man answered, calm.

“No, you aren’t.”

Obviously he wasn’t. He was still lying to him.

“Let me see it. I can do something…”

But as he was near him, Sherlock stepped back.

“It’s better for you to not see it.”, he said, almost begging.

John stopped, not knowing what to say or what to do. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and removed the blood from Sherlock’s lips lovingly. The whiteness of the cotton spotted with black spots, bright red spots as a lightning lit up the sky.

“Well,” , he managed to say “if you don’t want me to see it, at least show it to someone else. Please, Sherlock. You can’t just walk around with such a wound. I see how it’s painful in your eyes, even if you’ll never admit it. Please, Sherlock, find someone to take care of it.”

“I’ve already done it, John.”, said the detective “I’m in London for this precise reason. To receive some treatments. I should be in a hospital bed right now. Not here under the rain.”

“You idiot.”, John said, a soft smile on his lips.

“I shouldn’t be here at all. I’m putting you in great danger doing this.”, he remarked.

“I don’t care.”, the doctor stated.

“I do.”

“What?”

“I do care, John. I don’t want you to die.”, he sighed.

“But I could…I’ve been in great danger before. We’ve been!”

“This time is different. If someone discovers I’m alive you may be dead by tomorrow morning.”

Ok. John was starting to find it difficult to breathe.

“That’s why I used the song.”, the detective explained “I know only you would have recognised what it was referred to. And I was right.”

John didn’t understand. Sherlock was in danger being on that roof. He was in danger being on that roof. Yet they were there. He had to ask the question.

“Then why are you here?”

Sherlock approached, the two faces few centimetres away. John could notice a recent scar on Sherlock’s neck, but said nothing.

“Because I wanted to see you.”

Sherlock whispered, but his voice echoed louder on John’s entire body than the raindrops still beating him.

“Because I needed you to know I’m alive.”, he continued “Because I need you.”

Their lips met less than one second later, mouths crashing into each other’s. All John could feel was the warmth of the kiss, Sherlock’s tongue twisting in his mouth, tasting, exploring, devouring him passionately, desperately. He could feel the bittersweet of the blood inside the detective’s mouth. It was heaven, it was hell. Among the raindrops on Sherlock’s mouth he tasted something salty. He slightly opened his eyes.

He could certainly tell not all the streams down Sherlock’s face were drops of rain. The detective was silently crying, but he didn’t break the kiss. John’s heart broke a bit, the sensation that the other man was about to leave for somewhere deadly dangerous, but said nothing. He just kept on kissing, and kissing, and kissing, hoping for it to last forever, knowing it wouldn’t.

Abruptly Sherlock broke the kiss.

“I have to go now, John”, he said.

“You don’t.”, begged John.

“I must.”

And he turned his back to John, walking towards the lift.

“I may not come back.”, he said before entering the door, not looking at John, his voice a rough rasp “But if you ever hear that song again, I’ll be here, waiting for you.”

“Sherlock, I…”, but it died on his lips, the detective already inside the building.

 

_“So please just hold on”_  
 _My body echoes from their shrill  
_ _This heart is slowly beating still._

 

John was alone again under the storm, those three words he held so dear still unspoken. His heart relieved for Sherlock was alive. His heart half dead for he was gone, again.

 

* * *

 

Every day returned to be the same day as the day before.

Three months later, it was one late afternoon of May. John was in the underground returning home from the clinic.

 

_I’ll be above these city lights_   
_No one needs to know  
_ _But you._

That evening he was on that same rooftop. The figure of Sherlock Holmes was lit by the sunset disappearing behind the buildings, under the horizon. His black curls ruffled by the wind were burning in the red like flames.

The detective looked at John. He was pale, skinner than ever, with dark purple circles under his eyes. He looked awful, but he was alive.

“I love you too, John Watson.”

He said, answering John’s unspoken words.

_I’ll be above these city lights_  
 _No one needs to know  
_ _But you._

_I’ll be above these city lights_  
 _No one needs to know  
_ _But you._

_I’ll be above these city lights_   
_No one needs to know_   
_But you._

_I’ll be above these city lights_  
 _No one needs to know  
_ _But you._


End file.
